World of Weirdcraft
by SpaceAnJL
Summary: This is Sheldor the Conqueror – a cold, brutal warlord. He's quite a guy. This is Queen Penelope. She's a beautiful barbarian. She's one warrior-goddess who knows how to take care of herself. When they met, it was...Mordor...
1. Dial 'M' for Mordor

World of Weirdcraft

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The fortress rears up above the plain, a jagged tooth of stone against the livid sky. It is a brooding mass of stone, thrusting up out of the living rock, sharp and cruel. Strange lightnings play about the highest towers, even on the calmest nights, and vast piscine shapes glow weirdly as they twist beneath the placid surface of the moat. It is the keep of the Sheldor the Conqueror, a place of terror and power.

The war-machine grinds slowly forward on iron-bound wheels, a heavy mass of chains and spikes and sharp-edged death. At the head of the column of warriors, a knight in resplendent silver armour halts his unicorn at the edge of the moat, and commands the trumpets to sound.

Two figures step out onto the platform above the gate. Sheldor is tall, lean, his night-black armour forged by demonic hands. Beside him, the barbaric beauty who is his Queen. The sun casts a golden glow, across her mane of blonde hair, her honey skin, the razor-sharp edge of the mighty war-axe she carries.

The knight shakes a mailed fist up at them, defiant.

"My mighty waw machine will cwush you uttewy! I stand for twuth and mewcy and all that is good in the wowld."

"That's nice." Queen Penelope calls back. "_We've_ got a dragon."

The man gets one horrified look up at the shadow suddenly cast over him. There is a short, hot, exciting interlude. Sheldor and his Queen watch with interest, and a mild concern.

"She always gets such a tummy-ache if she doesn't take her food out of the can first."

"You are too impetuous. In future, capture them, take their armour, and _then_ let Tranquillity loose."

"But she's having such fun..."

The dragon performs an impromptu stomp of victory upon the shattered remnants of the war-machine. Sheldor smirks with satisfaction. Gives a signal, and the gates of the fortress swing wide, the horde within unleashed...

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The after-battle parties are always riotous. The courtyard is a seething mass of fighting, dancing and drinking. Some captives are providing dinner and a show. Tranquillity, replete with slaughter, burps and rumbles faintly in her pen, gnaws at a last haunch of unicorn.

Penelope reels away from a knot of dancing warriors, and swishes her way across the courtyard. A hand reaches out of the shadow, and attempts to tug at her cloak. She grabs the wrist, and the owner finds themselves flat on their back with a boot on their throat.

"Dranel." She sighs. "I've warned you about this before..."

"You could leave him, you know." The halfling peers wistfully up at her.

"So I could come live in a hole in the ground, with a short person who doesn't even _wear_ shoes?" She smiles pityingly at him. "Sweetie, get real."

"It's because he's all tall and powerful and got a big tower, isn't it?"

Her mouth twitches.

"Not...quite." Takes her boot off him.

He watches her walk away from him, and sighs. One day, she'll understand. She'll get fed up of the excitement, leading armies and conquering realms, and be ready to settle down quietly in a nice little burrow with him and have beautiful, smart babies and cook him dinner and stop wearing those high leather boots with the horribly sharp heels...

"Was he bothering you again? He really is hopelessly deluded."

"Yeah, he seems to think I'm only attracted to you because of your big...sword..."

Sheldor raises his eyebrows, and she laughs at his confusion.

"Queen P, gotta question..."

They turn. One of the horde has caught something.

In his own country, he was a prince, a proud member of a proud race, a scholar, an Astronomer, calculating the alignment of the spheres. But he had been young and foolish, and desired travel and adventure.

And he'd ended up here. It hadn't been too bad at first. Sheldor lurked in his tower, conducting whatever dark and terrible rites he did, and the rest of them contented themselves with half-heartedly plotting against him.

And then She had come. Blazing out of the sky. Bringing terror and change. And orcs. Lots of orcs. Like the one that presently has him in her grip. The dark elf, rendered mute by Her presence, squeaks piteously.

The orc-maiden runs a rough tongue up the side of his ear.

"Heh. Delishus car'mel." Looks at them. "Keep?" She asks, hopefully. Queen Penelope and Sheldor exchange glances, and then he nods. The orc-maiden grins, gets the elf in a companionable headlock and barrels away again.

"One of the mighty Elder race, reduced to a sex-toy." Sheldor shakes his head. "Sad."

"Well, he doesn't sing, unless he's drunk."

"And his star-gazing proved ultimately futile, since he failed to foresee your arrival. I could have avoided so many complications."

"You were brooding in your dark tower, and all you had to keep you company were a few scuttling minions. Admit it," She purrs, "I make your life much more fun."

She'd encountered kings and warlords, pirates and barbarian heroes. Killed quite a few of them. And then one day, she'd crash-landed Tranquillity into the courtyard of the Dark Tower, and met Sheldor.

He was cold and ruthless, and seemingly unimpressed by her. A delicious challenge.

Who ravished who first was always a matter for debate. Loud debate, often requiring a rematch.

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There's discarded armour throughout the room, the shattered remnants of more fragile furnishings – a lamp kicked over by one wild foot, the hangings from the bed torn down by an enthusiastic grip, a chair reduced to kindling...

The bed itself gives an ominous creak, and settles abruptly to one side. They both slide off onto the floor in welter of blankets, his yelp, her laughter.

"I must command the minions to construct something sturdier..."

She settles herself above him.

"Perfectly good bearskin rug in front of the fireplace."

"That's hardly civilized..."

"Barbarian queen, remember." Stretches her arms up luxuriously, gathering her blonde hair up atop her head, and the sight entrances him. Looks down at him through narrowed eyes. "I'm not at all civilized."

He looks around at the wreckage of his once-neat bedchamber.

"I would have to agree." Long hands on her hips. "I'm going to have to teach you proper behaviour."

"You can try." Her smile is feral. Sheldor's answering smirk is evil.

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Next morning...

There are benefits to living in a Dark Tower, as opposed to living wild and free. Plumbing is one – she is a definite convert to the idea of regular bathing. But there are certain drawbacks...

There is a shriek, a thud, several metallic crashes and some unpleasant squelching and bubbling.

Queen Penelope comes out of the bathroom, covered in green ichor and other happily unidentifiable things.

"You're going to have to learn to kill your own giant spiders, Sheldor."

"She's letting them up out of the dungeons again. I'm going to have Words."

"I'll come with you. Just as soon as I've cleaned up." Gives him a Look. "You know how she upsets you."

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Sheldor recoils faintly as the creature in the cell darts forward and rakes a clawed hand at him through the bars, screeching.

"A pox on you, you skinny warmonger..."

"Winkle, you hag..."

"May a thousand tiny demons come and spit on you..."

"At least I _can_ summon demons..."

"Conjuror..."

She screeches curses at him, the air itself curdling.

Penelope bangs her axe on the bars.

"Would you consider a deal?"

The witch stops swearing at Sheldor, and looks at Penelope.

"What sort of a deal?" she asks, in a much more normal tone of voice.

"You stop cursing Sheldor, and I don't pull your tongue out." Penelope says, sweetly.

The witch blinks. Considers. The blonde barbarian doesn't make idle threats.

"I can work with that."

Penelope grins.

"No more spiders. I hate washing them out of my hair afterwards."

"Bah." The witch spits. "You only keep me locked up because you are afraid of the feminine power principle that I embody...."

"No, I keep you locked up because you eat children." Sheldor growls.

"I thought that was a vicious slander." Penelope says.

"No." The witch shrugs, grins horribly. "Nothing to do with witchcraft. I just like the taste."

"Okay. Um...best just stick to the rats."

"And I get another halfling. At least until I get bored with him."

"Deal."

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They are having a light luncheon, when they are next interrupted. Sheldor has been trying to teach Penelope about cutlery. Well, that you eat with it, as opposed to the myriad unpleasant uses she can find for a spoon. His bloodthirsty darling is inventive, he does admire her ingenuity.

There is a thud. Another. Heavy footfalls outside the door, a smell of smoke. Something wails in terror, and there is a mighty blow upon the doors themselves, which shake before the assault, burst open. The creature before them fills the archway, a dark shape wreathed in terror, all flame and shadow, wide spreading horns and eyes of fire.

"Sorry to bother you, sire, but I caught this sneaking round the kitchens again." Holds out one clawed fist, a dangling bundle of rags. "It was bothering the maids."

It's small and clammy, all eyes and nose and ingratiating grin.

Sheldor narrows his eyes.

"Maybe I'll pull one of his arms off, just as an object lesson."

"Don't do that." Penelope purses her lips. "You'll have his mother screaming up from the cellars again."

The creature leers hopefully at her.

"Have you ever been told how beautiful you are in flawless Sindarin?"

She stares at him in mild horror.

"...Or you could just drop him in the moat."

The Balrog clears his throat, a respectful rumble.

"The lads were hoping to get up a game of orcball this afternoon, sire, and since we've lost our old ball..."

"...kicked off-side, into the wolf-pit..." Penelope reminds Sheldor.

"...we could use a new one."

Sheldor waves a magnanimous hand. The creature wails pitifully. The Balrog grins.

"Jolly good, sire. Will you be joining us?"

"Oh, I thought I might take him out for a flying lesson." Penelope says.

The Balrog's grin shrinks a little.

"Right you are, m'lady. I'll get the fire-crews stationed around the towers..."

"I had more important things to do in my youth than learn how to control a dragon properly." He folds his arms, a scowl to command armies. Penelope ignores it.

"All the more reason to learn now." She takes another fairy-cake. "These are so good."

"It's an old family recipe." He smiles at her delight. "You have to leave the wings on."

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He doesn't actually crash into anything, and Tranquillity only stalls once, when distracted by a herd of cattle. The landing could do with some work, but repairing the stonework gives the minions something to do. They can keep an eye on things from the comfort of the tower, anyway.

Queen Penelope slaps the side of the crystal globe.

"I'm just getting that great fiery eye again..."

Sheldor stalks over, and glares into the stone. The eye blinks, retreats rapidly, and the crystal clears.

"I don't understand why you find them so amusing..."

"It's the pitiful way they think that you don't know they are plotting against you." She smiles indulgently. "And then they act all hurt and surprised when you catch them..." Her eyes narrow suddenly. "Like that one."

Sheldor peers, too. And his wrath kindles, dreadful to behold.

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The room is dark, silent. Outside, the sun is setting, the last bloody rays drawing back, leaving only a soft, lambent glow in the corner of the room.

Two steps up to a platform, and a small casket rests atop a pillar.

A small shape creeps stealthily, moving lightly from shadow to shadow. He has avoided traps and hazards, guards and all manner of eldritch beings to get this far. If he has this prize within his grasp, then...there will be nothing he cannot do, cannot be. Nothing he cannot have...

The snap and discharge of violent energies, caged lightning paints the room in black and silver. There is a yelp, and something slightly singed rolls down the steps, and gets groggily to large, hairy feet.

Sheldor is suddenly there, stalking across the room. Slap of the leather gauntlet.

"Bad Dranel!"

The halfling whimpers.

"Don't torment him like that." Penelope marches across, and snatches the gauntlet out of his hand. The halfling blinks up at her with wild hope. She smiles back. "You've got to get more swing behind it."

This crack elicits a yelp.

"Right, I've put up with this long enough, Dranel." Sheldor snaps his fingers. Two large orcs lumber forward, pick the halfling up by the arms. "I didn't want to have to do this, but you leave me no choice. Take him...down to the witch."

He struggles and shrieks, bare feet scrabbling helplessly against the floor as they drag him off, the pitiful wailing growing fainter.

Penelope tuts.

"They don't learn, do they? What was he after?"

Sheldor sighs crossly.

"I _was_ keeping this for your birthday..."

He is master here, the subtle sorceries and elemental powers do his bidding, and he reaches a hand forth with no more than a flicker of harmless sparks, opens the casket. The chain loops down from long fingers, and there, holding all the light in the room...a ring. The Ring.

"For me?" Her eyes wide with delight, biting her soft lower lip, suddenly girlish. He smiles, flushes a little, looks down, back up again, the mighty warlord reduced to a nervous man.

"For you, my Queen."

"Oh, Sheldor..."

The world itself trembles, as he holds her left hand, slides the gold circle onto her finger. Distant towers fall, consumed by the earth itself, seas boil and deserts freeze. Men and beasts cower in terror as weird lightnings dance across the sky.

They don't notice such things. Because she flings her arms round his neck, he returns the embrace with awkward care, and they kiss with all the passion of two souls destined to rule the world together.


	2. Fur and Loathing

You need to see the original painting that inspired this fic – google 'Wheaton vs the Scalzorc' . Then, when your brain has recovered from the awesome...

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Fur and Loathing – A Tale from the World of Weirdcraft

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It seems like a good idea at the time. Manifest within the Dark Keep, spread fear and terror, maybe draw rude faces on a couple of the grimoires. And then, instead of the warlord, he finds himself facing a pretty blonde thing in a short tunic.

She screams. WslKr'Shr leers, all beard-of-evil suave. Causes all the doors and windows to bang shut, and the fire to burn with a cold purple flame.

"Hi." He purrs. "I'm an old...friend of Sheldor's." A nasty smile full of pointy fangs.

This is the point where the captured princess, or the temple handmaiden, or whatever she was, is supposed to faint. Not put their hands on their hips, eye the Sweater of Doom, causing despair and madness in all who beheld it, and say,

"What on earth are you _wearing_?"

"Silence, woman!" The demon self-consciously straightens the offending item. "This...garment contains within its very threads the essence of the mighty demonlord K'rust'eyh. It is my doom to wear it."

"Oh. Right. Hate to think you might have worn it on purpose."

He casts a curse at her that should flay the flesh from her bones.

The girl dodges with surprising agility. Looks at the smouldering pile of footwear in the corner of the room. The shriek is bone-chilling.

"My _shoes_!"

And that's where it all starts to go really wrong.

When Sheldor blows the doors in, WslKr'Shr is hog-tied in a length of sheet, and the barbarian is kicking him in the groin with venom and accuracy. She stops when she sees Sheldor.

"What took you so long?" She snaps, and then flings herself at him.

Demons can feel pain. Particularly when they are in corporeal form. WslKr'Shr blinks through watering eyes, and sees Sheldor's face. They can feel fear, too.

"Looks like we were just in time. What does that make us?" The halfling behind Sheldor chirps.

"Short, annoying minions." Sheldor says. He's still holding the girl, and they are both glaring at the struggling demon with identical expressions.

"Gimme my axe, Sheldor, I'm gonna go Cimmerian on his demonic ass."

"It's alright, my love, I shall banish him into a bottle."

"He'll fit better if I chop a few bits off first."

He's going to be painfully discorporated. And the other demons are going to laugh at him.

This has not been one of his better ideas.

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Skal was not having a good day, either. Being an orcish footsoldier was never a bundle of laughs – arrow-fodder was the least of it. Living under the pointy little heel of a barbarian queen wasn't too bad, plenty of rampage and slaughter, but her boyfriend was a crazy sorceror-warlord who made bad enemies. Most of them ended up either in pieces, the dragon or a jar, but still...someone has to take out the trash.

The bottle is slightly warm, and if you held it up to your ear, you would hear, not the sea, but a muffled swearing. Skal holds it gingerly at arms length, and tries to ignore the smell of sulphur. One thing he hates worse than cleaning out the dragon pen is demons.

"...and so as you can see, it's quite a simple cantrip, really." Sheldor is fond of explaining himself. He'll even talk to empty air. (The air elementals around the Keep have been known to suck the atmosphere out of a room avoiding this.) "It will send you to the Fire-Gaps, and you can drop him in."

"...or I could just tape some bacon to myself and run through the wolf-pit." mumbles Skal.

"What?"

"Nothing, sire." Skal shoulders his shield and axe, tries to look like a hardened professional soldier, closes his eyes.

He hates travelling by magic. Tries not to lose his breakfast (which doesn't taste much better that way than it did first time round) and opens his eyes to find himself in a barren landscape of flame-scarred rock and scorched sky.

He also drops the bottle. On the ground, not into the lava crack.

"Oh, fu..."

"...Reeee!" The smoke begins to billow up and take form. "I shall crush you utterly! I shall rend your flesh and fill your brain with worms of madness! I shall ride a steed formed from your darkest nightmares, your worst fears and imaginings..."

Skal, being quite bright for an orc, hastily tries to think of harmless things. Unicorns, perhaps. Or kittens, kittens were always good. You couldn't go wrong with a kitten sandwich, if you had enough mustard...

So WslKr'Shr finds himself manifesting atop a wingéd beast, half kitten, half unicorn. He bears down upon his unfortunate enemy, spear poised, ready to strike down this insolent creature...

The kitten half sees a feathered wing out of the corner of it's eye, and flails at it. Then it promptly screeches in pain, and the horse half rears back. WslKr'Shr makes an ignominious landing.

"It's like griffins. Half cat, half bird...never ends well." Skal sucks his teeth thoughtfully. "Boss used to breed 'em. Sticks to big glow-fish now, 'cept her ladyship's dragon likes to eat them. Don't half stink afterwards."

This demon is obviously quite junior. Only one head, no horns or batwings, standard number of arms. He'd have taken him for just another one of the pink-skins, if it wasn't for the eyes. And the outfit.

Skal squints.

"Knitwear." He says, in an injured tone. "Look, even the boss has a wolfskin cloak, right, big yellow fangs and everything. Strides about with a big black sword, wreathed in cold flame, demon wrought armour of ebon steel, sort of thing. And I was gonna get spitted by some git in a bad sweater?"

WslKr'Shr spits a curse at him. It bounces off in a shower of greasy purple sparks. Skal sighs, pretends he hadn't shut his eyes, and hides his relief.

"Look," he says, "Orcs, right, we're your basic footsoldiers of the Dark Forces, twisted out of eldritch magics, foul abominations of nature etcetera. We're immune to most of the nasty crap 'cos we _are _the nasty crap. 'Sides, working round the boss, you'd be lucky to be the same shape come the end of the week, so..." Taps the pentacle amulet round his neck, "Protected."

He feels the tug of magic start again, and grins thankfully. A friendly paw the size of his head knocks him flat.

"Mmmrowr?" The kittycorn enquires, then yowls in surprise as reality jerks sideways.

WslKr'Shr is left swearing at empty space, but still in one piece. He sits on a rock and contemplates a cruel, dark vengeance.

"Well, that went well." remarks the sweater.

"Oh, shut up."

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Skal appears back in the magic circle, only mildly clawed and trampled.

"Oh, he's brought a little friend back for Tranquillity." Penelope says happily. "Look, Sheldor, isn't it sweet?"


	3. There & Back Again: A Gormenghastly Trip

a/n – This is the problem. I try and write sensible, tightly-plotted thrillers, with characterisation and pace, that aim to reflect the human condition.

Then I get bored. And this happens instead...

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They first meet at Nivek's Emporium, a small band of adventurers, brought together by chance and fate. This is the traditional starting point for many Raids and Quests – Nivek sells potion ingredients, grimoires and enchanted weaponry, and the notice board is always surrounded by rugged Heroes, stealthy Thieves, robed Magic-users and all manner of beings looking to recruit or be recruited.

Dranel the halfling is a bit of an oddity amongst his own kind, too short-sighted to be a decent Thief, and fascinated by magic. It is his idea to venture to the Dark Keep. None of the Tall Folk are particularly keen on hiring on with someone who only comes up to their chest, though, so he ends up with his companions pretty much by default.

The dark elf is from the far kingdom of Khi'Bhla, and he has a name that tells of his proud and noble lineage, and his great knowledge of the stars and their courses. It takes about two minutes to recite, so they call him Taru, for short. He labours under a curse that strikes him dumb in the presence of beautiful women.

Nobody is quite sure what Shlaym is. He'd just sidled damply out of the shadows, and grinned hopefully at them.

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There is the nasty business with some giant spiders in the forest, a skirmish in the swamp with some lizard-men, and they end up running away from a couple of trolls, but at last they stand before the vast, arching gateway.

"The enemies gate is down." They look at each other, uneasy.

It is quiet, though. Far too quiet. They peer into the moat.

"There's something in the water..." Shlaym leans over, watches the moving light getting larger...

A gaping carp-like mouth breaks the surface for a moment, a dazzle of golden scales, and then an abrupt glop.

The water boils furiously for a moment, and then the glow-fish breaks to the surface, spits Shlaym back out onto the bank. Shlaym shakes his fist at it, wiping muck out of his eyes.

"Yeah, you try that again, and you're sushi, pal..."

The fish blows a derisive string of bubbles, and dives back down with a disgusted flick of its tail.

"I guess you're just an acquired taste." Taru tells him.

Dranel looks at the darkened doorway. Smiles weakly.

"Hey, this _could_ be fun, right?"

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"_Not_ fun, _not _fun..." Shlaym wheezes. He's still streaked with fish-slime, but it has now been joined by blood, soot, spit, venom and dung. The others don't look any better. Taru had fallen into a clutch of eggs, and promptly been bitten by a dozen abruptly hatched lizardlings. Dranel had blundered into a giant spider web. There had been corridors where the floors dropped. Corridors where the ceilings dropped. One corridor that spat random fireballs. Another with spikes. They had been wondering what had happened to the bodies of those unfortunate enough to set off the traps before them; and now, they've just found out. The owner of this Dark Keep believes in...recycling.

They make it in through the door, and slam it shut behind them. There is the muffled thud and clatter of a couple of skeletal warriors striking the other side. Taru squeaks and kicks frantically at the disembodied bony hand trying to climb his leg. It falls away, and Dranel stamps on it hastily.

The echoing space of a dark hall, the roof lost in gloom. Across the shadowed floor, they can see what looks like an altar. A squat, stepped ziggurut of a thing, half the height of man, carved about with runes and sigils that seem to shift before their sight, sucking the meagre light into itself. And upon the summit, a massive ruby, every facet glowing with a deep inner fire.

There is the faint smell in the air, the weird mix of burning tin, sulphur and old socks that means a vast discharge of magic. The lazy flickers of it spark and run, afterimage of a huge glyph scorched deep into the very granite of the floor.

Dranel concentrates, casts a careful spell. The air becomes alive with lines of coloured light, a web of complex magic.

"So, what exactly happens if we touch one of those, then?" Shlaym's voice is high and nervous.

"Let's not find out."

Cautious, nervous, they tiptoe across the floor, bending and twisting between the light. Dranel squints at the one in front of his face. Tiny numbers race and shimmer...

Taru is the last to draw his foot clear, and the slow, careful, agonising ordeal is over. They slump to the ground, exhausted.

"Well, that's the last challenge passed." The voice sounds pleased.

"Wha..."

"You got a bit sloppy with that last incantation, but it wasn't a bad effort."

He's standing on the far side of the altar, hands clasped behind his back. Tall and thin and pale, he doesn't look particularly dangerous.

"_You're_ Sheldor the great sorcerer?" Shlaym is disbelieving. "So where's your staff?"

"Staffs are a symbol of outmoded thinking." Sheldor holds up his hand, and it is suddenly wreathed in a cold flame. His smile is a horrible thing.

Okay, _now_ he looks dangerous.

Sheldor puts his still-blazing hand on the great red jewel. It sinks into the altar with a groan. The trio feel the air around them shift, as entire walls move, grind of stone as blocks the size of buildings pull themselves free, and hang in the air in the way stone really shouldn't. The paving slabs in the floor begin to shake, sharp tongues of light stabbing through the cracks, the glyph beginning to glow. Dranel isn't sure if the shrill, unearthly whining he can hear is the magic or him.

When the world finishes changing, and they've pulled themselves to their feet, they find themselves standing in a room now lit by large windows, the labyrinthine pattern marked in silver on white marble, and the altar become a smooth slab of the same. But the red jewel, and Sheldor, are unchanged. He flexes his hand, and the flame vanishes.

"That's the castle reset."

"So what happens to us now?" Dranel asks, faintly.

Sheldor looks at them.

"Well, you made it this far. You might as well stay." Something the general size and shape of a paving slab drops out of the air in front of them. "There are just a few house rules..."

They look at the monstrously thick tome of lore in front of them. Contemplate the trek back through whatever the castle has now turned into, and down into town. Dranel shrugs.

"How bad could it be?"

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So that's how they all end up living in the Dark Keep. Shlaym and his mother can sometimes be heard shrieking at each other in the cellars. Taru has an observatory at the top of a tower; he spends a lot of time with the telescope focused on the town. Dranel has a workshop all of his own, where he can practise alchemy and incantation. And Sheldor walks the pathways of space and time, conversing with demons and the spirits of earth and air, and reordering reality to his will.

And it's a reasonably peaceful existence, until the scantily-clad blonde barbarian crashes her dragon into the courtyard...


	4. The Aggressive Dragon Deficiency

a/n – I just found the webcomic 'Looking For Group'. Wheee! That's quite disturbingly close to the inside of my head. The bits that don't look like 'Girl Genius', anyway...

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The Aggressive Dragon Deficiency

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Of all the courtyards, in all the world, she had to fly into his...

She arrives in his life quite unexpectedly. When one is a feared and shunned practitioner of the Dark Arts, one becomes used to all sort of incursions from barbarian heroes and questors on the make. But one does not expect random barbarian women to just crash-land their dragons through the gates.

At the top of the great tower, there is a room. The walls between the tall, narrow windows are shelved, hold neat ranks of grimoires, tomes of eldritch lore, chests of scrolls. But the centre of the room holds nothing but a low dais, a circle of stone. And here, the master of the Dark Keep stands, hard at work.

"No, that's not quite right..." Long fingers move, a smear of light, redraw the symbol.

Strings of glyphs hang around him, glowing, shifting colours, ice and fire and captured starlight, tiny constellations of thought. Here, the world is mapped and ordered, obedient to his will.

He doesn't know what the noise is at first - crashing, and grinding, and a stricken bellowing of some kind, and a vast, leathery flapping sound. He's inclined to ignore it, until the room itself shakes very slightly.

When he appears in the courtyard, scowl firmly in place, the explanation is simple. A dragon, a fairly young one by the look of it, is digging itself out of the wreckage of an inner wall, all claws and wings and temper. The trail of its erratic landing is marked in the trail of destruction behind it, and the long furrows gouged into the stone slabs of the yard. Shaking itself free of the last bits of rubble, it swings a large head round to glare madly at the figure standing before it. It growls.

Sheldor growls back, blue eyes cold and unblinking.

The dragon looks away first. It drops its head, and noses at something on the ground, makes an anxious bubbling. The something groans slightly, then sits up.

There's an uncouth, unwashed barbarian sprawled on the ground, holding her elbow, and using the language the likes of which he hasn't heard since those two delinquent children attempted to push his grandmother into her own oven.

This has to be Sheldor. He's tall, even taller from where she's slumped on the ground. Wonders whether she can get to her axe, and fix that little discrepancy. But her arm hurts, and her head hurts. Her last hope is the great, reptilian head that suddenly thrusts forward, those massive jaws that can crush a horse...

He scratches the dragon behind one ear. It makes a sound like someone using a rusty saw on tin, and slumps happily, eyes half-shut.

She stares. Tranquillity has tried to maul pretty much every guy she's ever brought back to the yurt. And _now_ she decides to make nice?

He could blast her with a word. They both know it. Instead, he helps her to her feet, surprisingly strong and oddly gentle. She lifts her chin proudly.

"I am Penelope, from the Clan of Those Who Ride Against the Wind."

"I am Sheldor, obviously."

Blue eyes meet green. He is ice and steel and darkness, she is fire and gold.

Part of the wall behind Tranquillity totters and falls over in a crash of stone. Neither of them even notice.

"You need a healing potion." His nose wrinkles. "And a bath."

So maybe she'll kill him later. After the pain has gone away.

Since there doesn't appear to be any active fire and slaughter going on, the others venture out of hiding. Taru had been up in his observatory when the dragon went over, clipping the roof-tiles, and he's still gibbering faintly.

Shlaym has a different focus, peering hopefully around the courtyard. He's carrying a bucket. Dranel looks at it. Shlaym shrugs.

"A woman fell out of the sky? Sew the bits back together, a little zap of lightning..." His voice trails off. "Oh. She seems to be...all there."

Dranel looks.

The barbarian is from one of the Northern tribes who consider leather to be a hard-wearing and practical material. She just doesn't seem to be wearing very much of it. She's a creature of cream and honey, ripe curves and blonde hair.

They jostle to a halt, and she blinks slightly dazed green eyes at the short creatures bobbing in front of her.

"Shlaym, Taru and Dranel." Sheldor waves a hand. "They live here, too"

"Are you some goddess fallen from the heavens?" Shlaym would bend over her hand, but she's still clutching her elbow. Taru manages a muffled squeak, and a low bow.

"I can do magic, too." Dranel says, eagerly. "Want to see some of my magic?"

"Um..." She backs away slightly, finds a solid arm behind her.

"Not now, Dranel." Sheldor rolls his eyes. He inscribes a glowing rune into the air, and utters one sharp command. There is a snap of light, and all that is left behind is the faint echo of the barbarian's startled squeak.

Well, nearly all. There's a gust of warm, wet air from behind them. Carefully, slowly, they all turn. Look up. Keep looking up.

"Taru, you people are supposed to be able to talk to animals..." Dranel quavers.

"'You' people?..." Taru swallows, looks at the looming nostrils. "What am I supposed to say?"

"How about 'please don't bite our heads off'?" Shlaym offers.

Tranquillity perks up. The Dragon-with-Two-Legs has taken the Lady away, but he's left her some small, scuttling things to play with. What fun. She draws in a breath.

"Run!" Dranel yelps.

00000000

She's escaped out of the bathroom, leaving nothing but a tub that will need a very good clean, and a small pile of grubby leather. Sheldor has a brief moment of horror – the Dark Keep is cheerfully homicidal, even on a good day. But the little wet footprints only waver into his work-room. She's standing in the middle of his work, prodding at the symbols and swaying slightly, eyes wide.

"'S'pretty." She smiles goofily at him, "Like li'l floaty stars..."

The healing potion is effective, but it is having side effects.

Penelope, distracted by the dazzling light-show, and unsure of how many hands she actually has at the moment, loses her grip on her towel.

"Whoops, don't normally get naked this quickly..."

Sheldor closes his eyes, makes a grab for the slipping fabric. Misses.

She squeaks. He squeaks. And then, she giggles. Sheldor snatches his hands back, and retreats.

He does open one eye a fraction. (Tells himself it is prudent and vigilant; she might have a concealed weapon.) No weapons, but she does have a mystic rune tattooed on her... He swallows.

Sheldor has dealt with many exotic and terrifying things within the walls of this tower. A semi-naked woman has never been one of them before. She complains about his choice of tunics, but eventually he gets her into one, and contrives to tuck her into the bed. A small hand tugs at him, and he finds himself helpless. He can outstare a dragon, but not those big eyes.

"'m s'posed to kill you, y'know..."

"I know. Please don't try."

"S'what I came here for... Some king tol' me...get a bag of gold if I brought'm your head." She gives a loopy grin. "Y'make friends easily, huh?"

He actually looks hurt for a moment, and then frowns.

"Told you? You don't have a signed contract?"

"A wha?" The frown fades out as her eyes shut.

Sheldor is quite offended that he only rates one bag of gold. And sending an amateur, too. She's come after a sorcerer, armed with only a half-grown dragon and an axe? She should be dead many times over.

It has to be some kind of enchantment, he assures himself, as he looks down at the blonde head that has so unaccountably found a way into the crook of his shoulder. He's a cold, ruthless mage, he has no time in his life for taming wild barbarians, however nice they smell. But - it's only good sense to keep a hold of her, she can't get at a dagger then. It's got nothing to do with how soft and warm she is. A master of occult forces and dark magics doesn't cuddle. He certainly doesn't close his eyes, and let his guard down, and go to sleep with a would-be assassin drooling faintly on him...

00000000

She wakes up, clean and warm, all her cuts and bruises gone. She's also... in a strange bed. With a strange man. She has a couple of hazy memories, that he has a room full of floating lights. And that he has rather cold hands.

Penelope had always dreamed of making it in the Sacred Forest, a Priestess in one of the Temples. But competition is fierce, even for low-rung handmaidens. And...she's kinda disqualified from some of the Orders. (The winters were long and cold up on the Northern Plains, okay, they had to make their own entertainment.) She'd drifted into the warrior business pretty much by accident, coming back early to the yurt and finding her boyfriend cuddled up with some trashy little acolyte he'd 'rescued'.

She'd packed her belongings onto Tranquillity, flown away and never looked back. She'd met muscle-bound heroes, swaggering pirates and vicious warlords. (Killed a few of them.) And now, she's met a sorcerer. She should be dead. She should be terrified. But it's very difficult to be scared of this man. Evil sorcerers are not supposed to have cute freckles on their necks.

She tells herself that she could stab him in his sleep if she wanted to, but it's really too much effort to disentangle herself from him and find a dagger. Not at all because he looks sweet and vulnerable. Tucks her head back under his chin. She isn't snuggling – bloodthirsty warriors don't snuggle.

Sheldor's arms tighten, and he makes a little grumble into her hair, before his eyes pop open in shock.

"So..." She looks up at him, fingers walking up his chest. "I'm completely at your mercy?"

"Well, yes."

"Huh." Tilts her head, and she's _very_ close to him now. "Nobody will come to help me if I scream?"

"Are you going to scream?" He enquires, suddenly slightly breathless. The fingers are now walking _down_...

"That...depends." Her eyes go a bit wide, and then she grins. "Probably."

00000000

(She does.)

00000000

"Has it gone yet?"

Shlaym opens the door. A large golden eye looks in at him. He slams the door again.

"No."

They are huddled in a small store-room near the front-gate. It's been a long night. Mainly because Dranel won't shut up about the wonderful, gorgeous barbarian, whom he seems convinced is his soul-mate.

This isn't the first time he's found a soul-mate, though.

"What about that 'temple dancer' who turned out to be a mad priestess?" Taru demands. "The one you tried to impress by raising a snake-demon?"

"Okay..." Dranel shrugs, scuffs, "Perhaps that wasn't the best idea I ever had..."

"If Sheldor hadn't dragged you out of that summoning circle..."

"Yes, you've made your point, thank you." Dranel still has the odd nightmare about that geyser of green sparks, all fangs and scales. "Anyway, we had to escape from the kingdom of Dharr-Kho because of _you_."

"The Princess Hyzenthlay." Taru remembers. She'd been a bit too keen on him.

"She had beautiful fur, though." Shlaym points out. They both look at him. He shrugs. "Hey, _my_ first girlfriend was a mermaid." Sighs. "Even now, I can't look at a plate of pickled herring..."

00000000

"You ravished me."

"_You_ seduced _me_."

"I let you."

"I know."

There is a pause.

"Would you like to ravish me again?"

"Yes, please."

00000000

Finally, they get a chance to make a break for it; Tranquillity has hooked one of the glow-fish out of the moat, and is feeding noisily and messily.

They sprint across the courtyard, and make it into the tower. By common consent, they all head for the Great Hall, stumble to a startled halt.

Sheldor's throne is placed at the head of the table. A monolithic piece of carving, no-one but the master of the Dark Keep sits there. Usually. It turns out that two people can, in fact, sit in it, if one is astride the other's lap, and personal space is no longer a concern.

Penelope scrambles round, rearranging her tunic hastily.

"Don't they ever knock?"

"I'll get a better charm for the doors." Sheldor promises.

"She came here to kill you!" Dranel splutters. (Conveniently forgetting his own motives for originally entering the Dark Keep.)

"That was just business." Penelope waves a hand. "We've...renegotiated."

Taru and Shlaym exchanges glances. It certainly looks that way. Penelope slithers out of Sheldor's lap like a length of silk, and saunters towards the door.

"I'm gonna go kill the king instead."

Sheldor smiles fondly at her.

She turns in the doorway, and looks at him, eyebrows raised in happy challenge.

"Come on, the fresh air and exercise will do you good."

"Oh, very well."

He gathers his cloak about him, and strides after her.

Taru looks sidelong at Shlaym.

"She didn't look like she wanted to kill him."

"Unless she was trying to smother him to death." Shlaym's eyes glaze over. "What a way to go..."

"Does anybody else understand what just happened here?" Dranel asks, plaintively.

"Well, I've been saying this place needed a woman's touch for a while..." Taru muses.

"It's obviously some vile enchantment that I must free her from..."

Taru and Shlaym stare at each other, then at the gesticulating halfling. Dranel seems to forget who the actual master of the Dark Keep _is_, sometimes.

"...And some day, we'll have smart, beautiful babies together..."

"Yeah, sure you will." Shlaym pats his shoulder comfortingly.

"After all," Dranel sticks out his chin, "What has he got, that I haven't?"

Taru and Shlaym think about the Dark Keep, the massive towers, the labyrinthine dungeons, the walls pulled from the living rock by elemental sorceries, and holding within them, an army of undead warriors and eldritch beings, all held in thrall to a master of terrible powers.

"He's...taller?" Taru ventures.

00000000

It's a small, peaceful kingdom, maybe half a dozen villages and a pretty little capital city. The palace sits atop a hill, a dazzling white confection of airy towers amidst manicured lawns and elaborate terraced gardens.

Tranquillity ploughs to a halt through the rose-garden, and settles down to munch on the shrubbery.

Penelope strides into the throne-room.

"I brought Sheldor's head..."

The tall figure behind her flips back his hood.

"...you never said you wanted it detached from the rest of him."

The king gestures. A tall bearded man in dark robes raises his staff, and purple lightnings play about him.

"Your magic will avail you naught within this chamber, foul sorcerer."

The king's own bodyguard fan out, weapons drawn.

"Oh, old school." Sheldor draws his own sword, sighs. "Very well, gentlemen, you may begin..."

The fight is short, violent and fairly one-sided. After all, these are half a dozen of the most highly-trained knights in the kingdom.

The mage levels his staff at the barbarian stalking towards him.

"Know that I cannot be harmed by any man...urk." He drops to his knees, with a look of intense surprise on his face.

Penelope puts her boot against his chest, jerks the axe out, lets the body flop back.

"Honestly, all this discrimination is really starting to piss me off."

Turns to find Sheldor fastidiously wiping his blade clean on the last soldier's cloak. He looks at her, shrugs.

"My father insisted that I at least learnt the basics."

"What exactly does your father do?" Penelope asks, faintly awed.

"He was a professional monster-slayer." Sheldor looks sad for a moment. "He disagreed with something that ate him."

They both turn and look at the ashen-faced king, still huddled on his throne. He lifts his chin.

"I will show you how a king dies."

"The same way as anybody else." Penelope says, and proves it.

00000000

"Queen Penelope. I like that." She puts the crown on, twists her head this way and that. "How do I look?"

"Beautiful as always."

Part of the palace is now ablaze. Below them, there is confusion in the streets, panicked citizens and confused soldiery.

Tranquillity rears theatrically against the moon, spreading her wings and roaring defiance.

Penelope settles back, his chest warm against her shoulders, tilts her head to smile up at him.

"With your brains, and my brawn..."

Sheldor smiles back, his arms about her waist, and completes her thought.

"...this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

.

.

a/n – the name of the Omaha tribe does actually translate as 'those going against the wind'. All my other feeble word-play should be shamefully obvious.


	5. The UrukHai Acquisition

Two roads lead to the Dark Keep. One winds out from the town gate, threads through the edges of the Sacred Forest, skirting abandoned temples and haunted tombs, dips through the treacherous swamps and then carves a savage path up through the barren rocky plateau. It is beset with danger, even before the adventurer dares to cross the moat and brave whatever doom lies beyond the great gateway.

The other road is a short, reasonably well-paved path up from the edge of town to the side door. The locals use it for deliveries.

The townsfolk take a cautious pride in their Dark Overlord. He doesn't really do much in the way of local oppression and terror. But it stands to reason, big dark tower like that, he _has_ to be evil. And so the town does very well out of the small, steady stream of adventurers that pass through. They drink at the taverns, boast at the brothels, and spend well in the various shops that do a trade in weapons, potions and such items. Due to the fact that very few adventurers actually return down the road, credit is not generally offered.

Occasionally, some crazy trainee sorceress will make her way up to the gates and entreat Sheldor to take her on as an apprentice. Penelope threw the last one into the moat. She'll put up with the skeleton warriors, the witch in the cellars, even Shlaym, but mad-eyed redheads in purple drapery screeching at her that they worship her boyfriend as a demigod, just...no.

It has been a couple of weeks since Penelope arrived. There have been a few changes.

For one thing, the ancient stone throne, carved with runes of power, now has some little stripy cushions on it. (Sheldor had twitched when he first saw them, but he has to admit that they do make it more comfortable.)

There had been the day a party of dwarves had tunnelled into the deepest hidden caverns beneath the very foundations, and roused an ancient and brooding evil from slumber...

The Balrog had been terribly apologetic.

"I'm so sorry about the mess, but they came right up under my bed..."

Penelope was all sympathy.

"Well, I'm just the same if somebody wakes me unexpectedly, aren't I, Sheldor?"

"Indeed, dear."

Tranquillity is delighted to have a fire-proof playmate at last. And it is always handy to have someone who can beat the dents out of armour with his bare fists around.

And, then, there were the orcs...

00000000

…Penelope is happily looting a ruined temple up in the mountains, when those responsible for ruining the temple in the first place come back.

One lone woman with an axe doesn't look like much of a challenge.

One orc rushes her, yelling fiercely and brandishing a jagged blade. He almost makes it, before a large reptilian claw swipes him into the dirt.

Enthusiasm for the fight abruptly wanes. Something about a couple of tons of flying fire-breathing reptile dropping out of the sky will do that. Penelope swaggers over to see what Tranquillity has caught.

The chieftain is ugly, even by orcish standards, piggy little eyes in a mass of scars and tribal tattoos. Snarls and spits at her boots.

"I would rather die than yield to a woman."

Penelope shrugs.

"Fair enough." It's a good, clean strike, just like her father taught her, a firm stance and a strong follow-through. Shakes her hair back, and scowls. "Anyone else?" She asks.

Behind her, Tranquillity bats the headless corpse around, worries at it.

"Don't play with your food, sweetie." Penelope admonishes.

A gristly crunch, a burp, and the large snout swings round hopefully.

There is abrupt general grovelment.

00000000

"There's a bunch of orcs at the front gate." Dranel pants.

"And?" Sheldor does not look up from his scroll.

"They've got Penelope..."

All it takes. Sheldor is already moving, wrapped in storm and angry lightning. If anybody has offered insult to her, he'll start by tearing their hearts from their still-living bodies and boiling their eyeballs in their sockets. Then, he'll get... _creative._

But his barbarian is looking entirely too pleased with herself, slipping down off Tranquillity's neck, and swaggering towards him.

"They followed me home. Can I keep them?"

Sheldor looks out at the horde. The horde take one look back, and prudently fling themselves flat again.

"Well, really, I don't know...we're quite well-provided with skeleton warriors..."

"You have to keep wiring them back together, though." Big eyes, and a little pout. "Please?"

He can never resist her when she does that.

"Oh, very well. But you'll be responsible for exercising them, young lady."

"Yay!"

The party goes on long into the night, and many toasts are drunk to their new Queen. Penelope, snuggled up under Sheldor's chin, listens to the cheering, and grins.

"I got my own loyal horde. Go me!"

"Well, you are a beautiful and terrible warrior-queen with the power of life and death over them. Of course they are going to worship you."

"What about you?" She asks.

Sheldor looks down at her.

"I think you are an annoying barbarian wench with no manners and an atrocious singing voice."

Penelope unleashes her greatest and most terrible weapon. She opens her eyes very wide, and her lower lip trembles. Sheldor the Conqueror, mighty sorcerer and scourge of kingdoms, is utterly helpless, and he knows it. He sighs fondly.

"Yes, I adore you, too."


	6. The Periannath Pinãta Polarization

Dranel wanders into the 'Dancing Donkey' tavern. As usual, he has to struggle through the crowd. Some dwarves are having a Poetry Slam, and he backs up a step as one of the contestants bounces off the bar. It stands upright, shakes itself briefly, and then yells,

"I'll gi' you 'unrealistic saga'..." Charges back into the fray, axe raised.

"He's a bit odd." The barkeep says, dismissively. "Never been quite the same since he came back from Permia...what can I get you, young halfling?"

"Oh, er, ale, I suppose."

"Is that a suitable drink for a hero?" asks a voice. Dranel jumps, finds that a Mysterious Hooded Figure is lurking in the shadows. This is not too uncommon in the tavern, so he turns back to the bar.

"I'm no hero..."

"Of course you are." The Mysterious Hooded Figure says. "Bold, resolute halfling, brave as a dragon in a pinch..."

"Well, I wouldn't quite say that." But Dranel preens slightly.

"If we're talking about dragons," the bar-keep interjects, dumping the ale down, "you can tell her Majesty that that beast of hers had three of old Kroc's herd, and he'll be sending the bill up to the Dark Keep, same as usual..."

"Right, yes, I'll tell her..." Sighs. Three years, and he's still 'young halfling'. Three months, and Penelope has become 'her Majesty'.

"She just needs to see your true worth, you know." The Mysterious Hooded Figure breaks into his thoughts. "Learn to appreciate your devotion."

"Not much chance of that." He really doesn't think anyone appreciates him enough. He's even heard himself referred to as 'one of Sheldor's minions'.

"What if I told you that at this very moment, your fair damsel has been kidnapped and is being held in a tower, awaiting her heroic rescuer?"

"What?" Dranel spit-takes his drink.

"And you can forget about Sheldor. He's...busy with something else..."

00000000

"That has to be the world's biggest, ugliest cricket." Shlaym remarks.

"I think you'll find that it's actually a demon." Sheldor pushes Tranquillity's enquiring snout away from the corpse, and continues working his sword free.

"What kind of call did it make?"

"Skreee! I am Weta-Punga! Prepare to di...skreeskreeurgh."

"Okay, yeah, cricket-demon, then."

"I wonder what the others are doing?" Taru remarks.

Sheldor straightens abruptly, and his eyes narrow.

"_That_ is a very good question." It isn't at all like Penelope to miss out on a good fight.

Of course, she _is_ reckless, impulsive and easily distracted by shiny things. Last time she went raiding without him, she spent two whole days ransacking the Cobblers' District of a city. (Penelope is of the opinion that if the shoe fits, then get it in every colour.) But still, he begins to feel uneasy. Perhaps he should go and check in the crystal.

00000000

Penelope opens one eye. This doesn't feel right. For a start, there's no sorcerer contesting her hogging the blankets.

Everywhere is...white. There are rose petals. And candles. And lacy little throw-pillows. And – she's wearing something that makes her look like she lost a fight with a meringue. It has _bows_ on it.

Penelope's eyes narrow. If this is Sheldor's idea of a prank...Then she brightens. Well, she'll just make him rip this silly thing off her, that's what.

But she's still not easy in her mind.

The last thing she remembers is leaving Sheldor prowling about in Nivek's Emporium, looking at the new grimoires. She'd decided to take a quick peek over in some of the other stores, maybe get a manicure at 'Red Nails' ('Beauty for the Barbarian Woman in a Hurry') –

And now she's woken up in a strange bed, with a headache. And it hadn't started out as that sort of an evening at all.

00000000

It's been surprisingly easy. After living in the Dark Keep, where some things try to kill you as a way of starting a conversation, he'd been expecting worse. But some of the goblins actually run away screaming after a cursory bit of duelling, and the lumbering lizard-bear things only seem to know about three fighting moves, and they collapse into goo when they get stabbed.

And now, there she is. The girl of his dreams. Instead of all that nasty armour, she's dressed in a soft, gauzy thing that clings in interesting ways... Her blonde hair spread across the pillows, her face gentle in sleep. She looks like the sweet, innocent, delicate damsel she should be. He bends over to kiss the perfect rosebud lips...

Penelope's eyes spring open, and she jack-knifes up off the bed, cracks her forehead into the bridge of his nose.

00000000

"Oooowww."

"I _said_ I was sorry..."

Dranel is a piteous sight, two plugs of the white satin dress in his nostrils.

"Dis was _by_ chance to be a hero." He says plaintively. "I fought by way past bonsters and _ev'ryding_."

"Yes, sweetie, and I'm sure you did it very well. I'm so proud of you." Penelope pats his shoulder. "Now give me that sword before you hurt yourself with it."

Dranel clutches the hilt.

"I'm subbosed to be rescu'ing you."

Penelope raises her eyebrows.

"So...let me get this straight. I've been kidnapped, my clothes and weapons have been stolen and replaced by this..." arm waving "silly frilly _lingerie_, just so you can stage a rescue?"

"Um..." It sounds bad, put like that. "Yes?"

"Oh, I really don't think so." She grabs the sword off him.

Dranel, looking around for something to replace the sword, finds a bottle in an ice-bucket.

"You really dink we should leave?"

Penelope looks up from where she's ripping away the clinging skirts of the dress.

"Leave? I'm not leaving yet. I wanna know whose bright idea this was, and I'm not gonna ask them nicely." Hefts the sword. "Now, come on."

Stalks towards the door, looking for something to kill.

Dranel trails after her, still holding the bottle, and with the sinking sense that his heroic mission is rapidly becoming a farce.

00000000

He's even more convinced when they fail to find the bodies of anything he killed. In fact, they don't find any opposition at all until they reach a vast arching doorway, guarded by two large trolls, who blink at them, before hastily straightening up.

"No, no, please don't hurt us, oh mighty warrior." One creature says, in the flat worried voice of someone who has painfully learnt a script.

"Dat's a girl wiv de sword." The other one hisses. "I fought we was s'posed to lose a fight wiv der runty one. Why _she_ got de sword, den?"

"Human fing? Dey give shiny stuff when dey want to mate."

"Oh." Pause. "So how he gonna fight us?"

Penelope bares her teeth in something too feral to be a smile.

"_He's_ not."

Torchlight gleams off creamy skin, golden hair, the tattered remnants of a white silk gown, now ominously marked with dark stains. Her green eyes blaze with fury, and she snarls as she raises the sword.

Trolls are notoriously not too bright. But nothing is quite dumb enough to stand and face a Hot Chick With a Sword, in a Blood-Splattered Wedding Dress, on a Roaring Rampage of Revenge.

00000000

The hall is dominated by a vast golden statue, some three times the height of a man. A massive gleaming figure leaning on a sword. Penelope stops, a covetous gleam in her eye.

"Oooh, shiny." Tips her head thoughtfully. "Y'know, it looks kinda like my uncle Osc..."

The blank beautiful face lifts.

"Welcome To The Hall Of Heroes, Mighty Warrior. I Am The Last Foe You Must Face To Rescue The Damsel And Claim Your Reward."

There is a sudden gust of wind, that blows from nowhere, spinning the dust into little eddies. Small jolts of lighting spark and skitter. The glass in the windows begins to jitter spasmodically, and ice-crystals begin to form on surfaces.

Penelope begins to smirk.

"Sweetie, I'm not waiting around for anyone to rescue me. But when my boyfriend gets here, we're gonna kick your ass into the netherhells."

The ball-lightning increases its frenzy, lashing along the walls, and a pinprick of darkness at the heart expands suddenly into a sphere. Reality rips apart, and Sheldor steps through the gap.

"Right," he snaps, "I am in no mood to be trifled with."

The ominous scowl, and the large sword, rather back this assertion up.

"My boyfriend's back, and there's gonna be trouble..." Penny sing-songs.

"Don't taunt the dungeon boss, dear, it's tacky." Sheldor shrugs off his cloak. "And put this on, you must be freezing."

"I'm sure chopping a few limbs off might warm me up." Penelope snuggles gratefully into the cloak.

Sheldor turns his enquiring gaze to the weary figure trying to efface himself behind a pillar.

"I do hope you have a good explanation for how you got involved in this caper, Dranel." Frowns slightly. "I assume from the state of your nose that you awakened Penelope unexpectedly?"

"There was a kiss." Penelope says. "Rose-petals and moon-light."

"Oh, dear." Sheldor wrinkles his nose. "How dreadfully unoriginal."

"...told me I was the hero here." Dranel mutters. "Being romantic..."

"Well, if you think slinking into a woman's bed-chamber and watching her sleep is romantic, I can see how you might make that error..."

"Silence, Foul Sorcerer. The Hero _Will_ Win The Damsel, And Your Evil Power Will Be Broken."

The great golden sword clangs down, irresistible force.

It meets the immovable object that is Sheldor's blade, a weapon forged from will and sorcery and metal torn from the heart of alien stars.

Sheldor sighs, glances at Penelope.

"Shall we?"

"Hell, yeah."

Penelope favours a brutally direct approach, broad sweeping strokes, designed to crush. There is a savage elegance to her, as she hacks and slashes.

Sheldor fights like a machine, precise, controlled, every blow calculated, struck with terrible force and a cold certainty.

Dranel edges back behind the pillar, and keeps his head down.

It doesn't take long. One slash of that golden blade comes a little too close to Penelope, and Sheldor loses patience. The chill steel flares actinic bright, and there is no defence against the power of that thrust.

"Ooh, right in the golden globes." Penelope cheers.

There's no ichor. Instead, there is a shower of sparks, some jets of steam, and the sound of two voices yelping and swearing. The statue rocks for a moment, and then slowly, ponderously crashes to the ground.

Sheldor's eyes narrow dangerously. He takes a long stride forward, and gestures. A whole section of the chest falls open like a door.

Two halflings are frantically pulling levers, and trying to extricate themselves from a tangled mass of pipes and gears.

"Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain?" One halfling offers hopefully.

Sheldor gestures again. Invisible forces pick the halflings up by the neck, hang them in the air.

"I shall allow you one minute to explain yourselves."

"Well, it was all so clear to us," the one halfling, Lorro, burbles, "the girl's _obviously_ destined to be with Dranel..."

"Why?"

"Because...because he wants her, and so he _deserves_ to have her, that's why. I mean, _look_ at her, all blonde and pretty and under-dressed for the climate."

The other halfling, Bilpo, turns desperate eyes to Sheldor.

"And wouldn't _you_ be happier with some enchantress, a disciple of the intellect, with whom you could share a meeting of minds alone?"

"No." Sheldor says, coldly. "I happen to be madly in love with Penelope, thank you."

"Oh."

"Yeah, see, that _is_ kinda the enormous gaping flaw in your plan." Penelope drapes herself against Sheldor, and gives them a mock-pout. "Since I happen to be madly in love with Sheldor, too."

"But...that's not how it's supposed to go." Bilpo wails. "He's the Sorcerous Overlord, you're the Damsel in Distress, you should be rescued from his clutches by the Plucky Underdog Hero."

"But I _like_ his clutches." Penelope snuggles closer, and kisses Sheldor under the jaw. He flushes along his cheekbones. "And, sweetie, you're reading the text all wrong. We're the Battle Couple."

"But you're not supposed to like HIM!" Lorro shrieks. "He's all tall and weird and much too clever."

"You're supposed to like _him_." Bilpo points to Dranel, who is trying to sidle unobtrusively back through the portal. "It's in the _script!_"

"He's the Designated Hero." Lorro complains. "He's _entitled_."

"You're meant to swoon gratefully into his arms..."

"There was a bottle of ambrosia chilling by the bed, ready..." Lorro smirks.

"...It's the classic happy ending."

"Who for?" Penelope demands. The two halflings blink at her.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand the question." Lorro says.

Penelope crosses her arms.

"Look, I live in a mighty fortress, with the world's most powerful sorcerer, I have my own horde, I even have my own crown..." (She has a couple, actually. Some of them are a bit dented where the original owners were reluctant to part with them.) "You really expect me to give all of that up, just for some nice guy who thinks I'm pretty?"

"Er...yes?" Bilpo says.

"You're not supposed to fly about on a dragon and fight things." Lorro grumbles resentfully. "You're just supposed to lounge about decoratively in scanty clothing. And show your gratitude for the love of a decent halfling in a carnal manner."

"It was all going to be so perfect." Bilpo is wistful. "He'd come home to your cosy little burrow, and you'd bring him dinner..."

"...and there would be sex. Lots of sex. Don't forget the sex." Lorro adds.

Sheldor growls faintly, and his fingers twitch. The halfling's eyes bulge as the force-grip tightens, and he scrabbles at his throat.

"You are beginning to become...irksome."

"Is that another word for purple?" Penelope asks. "Puce is a funny word, too. I like the sound of it. Puuu-ce."

"Well, my little blood-flower, what do you wish to do with them?"

Penelope picks up a length of broken piping and hefts it meaningfully.

"Hey, I'm a party girl. I'm in the mood to go clubbing." A breezy smile. "Wanna play a little periannath pinãta?"

Dranel, happy to be forgotten about, slinks towards the portal again. He levers the cork out of the bottle of ambrosia. Seems a shame to waste it.

It tastes like...honey and peaches and sunshine, like the lips of the most beautiful girl in the world...

Behind him, there are the sounds of Penelope giving an object lesson in equality and choice and the right of a woman to have her own career. He winces, and hastens through the glowing gateway, to the familiar surroundings of the Dark Keep.

He takes another swig. This stuff isn't bad. Considers, shrugs.

Maybe the Witch would like to share it.


	7. The Hyborian Excursion

_a/n – the Realm of Weirdcraft is quite clearly the product of a misspent childhood. Everything from Tolkien and Leiber to the dubious delights of early 'Dragonlance'. Plus a lot of random tv. Does anyone else remember Eric the Cavalier? ;)_

.

The Hyborian Excursion

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The lands of the south are well mapped, from Isle of Doom and the swampland of the coast, up through the reaches of the Sacred Forest, the patchwork of towns and farms around it, the elf-infested woods, the small prosperous kingdoms inhabited by men and halflings, and the mountains that echo with the faint cries of dwarves who have just tried to quarry a troll.

When you reach the wide, blank expanse that marks the Northern Plains, there is simply the stark legend, 'Here Be Dragons'. It is no idle threat...

The pens are full, a grumbling mass of scaly hide and leathery wings, narrow reptilian heads on snaky necks. One beast sits up to scratch an ear, a gonging rasp of talons. Another yawns, a hell-pit of forked tongue and curving fangs. Two draklings squabble over a deer carcase, their flame barely more than hot air. These are the mounts of the Clan of Those Who Ride Against the Wind, who are camped upwind of the pens, (nobody ever slept downwind of a dragon more than once – an all-meat diet led to excessive flatulence) in an eclectic mix of tents and wagons. The rich smell of cooking rises on the evening breeze, as they sit around their camp-fires, feasting and drinking and boasting of their exploits.

"What is best in this life?"

"The open plains, a fast dragon, and the wind in your face."

"A sharp edge to your blade, and a good prospect of plunder."

"Ah, to crush your enemies, to see them flee before you."

"Ha! And you, my friend?"

The man spoken to pauses in where he is fastidiously wiping the edge of his drinking goblet.

"I'm a great believer in soap and hot water, myself."

In this encampment of barbarians, the speaker stands out. He's much cleaner, and far less hairy, a slight figure amongst the rough-hewn, fur-clad men. They remind Sheldor of his brother, frankly. (Crom is presently carving out a career as a pirate along the southern coast.) They are loud and rude and smell of alcohol. But Penelope is related to many of them, and immolating her family would not be a promising start. Likewise, they have left the horde at home – the sportive playfulness of orcs never seems to sit well in company.

He is well aware that she is nervous, bringing him back to meet her clan. Sheldor has faced many foes in his time, monsters, demonic entities or just really irritable men with large axes. A prospective father-in-law is new.

Every since he'd seen the tall, thin man slither off the back of Penelope's dragon, brushing himself down and muttering, Bork had been sceptical. Now, he's grumbling quietly at his younger daughter.

"...expect you to provide me with some grandchildren," waves his hand at the surrounding encampment, "and I wanted 'em brought up in a house on wheels, like a decent nomad."

"We have a castle..."

"I _could_ put it up on wheels, if you really wish it." Sheldor offers, helpfully. Bork and Penelope both stare at him, though for different reasons.

"It's built into the side of a mountain, dearest."

"Well, yes, we would put the wheels on the mountain."

He'd do it, too. Penelope touches his arm.

"You don't need to. I think the Dark Keep is fine just as it is."

Bork starts wondering if Penelope has brought a trainee shaman home. He's making about as much sense as their tribal one does when he's been on the mushrooms. (The man has a tendency to hold his sacrificial knife up to his deaf ear and tell them that it is commanding them to kill all the bears.) Regards him.

"So, you ever get that fancy armour dirty, boy?"

"Not if I can help it." Which is true; Sheldor tends to kill anything before it can get that close.

There is a jeering laugh.

"He doesn't look like much of a warrior, Penelope."

"Krut." She had been afraid of this.

Krut is a large man. When he flexes his arms, muscles have to get out of the way of other muscles. Once, Penelope had thought that was cute; now, he just looks like a bladder stuffed with walnuts, or something. He sneers faintly.

"Are there no better men than this amongst the cities of the south?"

"No." Penelope says. The blunt response rocks Krut back on his heels for a moment, confusion on his face. Then he grins, puts a meaty hand on her shoulder.

"Then you must be glad to be back among us. Perhaps I shall take you back into my tent."

"That would be Penelope's choice." Sheldor says, calmly. "But considering that she left you before, I don't see why she should wish to return."

"So, you hide behind your woman?"

Penelope rolls her eyes. Krut is quite clearly intent on provoking a fight.

"Krut, you really don't want to do this..."

"Why? Am I to be afraid of this milk-faced creature? Does he lack the courage to face me?"

Sheldor sighs, and looks at Penelope. This is growing tedious. Penelope bites her lip.

"Don't hurt him too badly."

"Don't you worry your pretty little head..."

"I wasn't talking to you."

The big barbarian laughs. Turns to Sheldor, throws out his chest.

"I am Krut Bearslayer. What name shall I carve upon your grave-marker?"

Sheldor smiles like a knife.

"I am Sheldor, son of Crom, commonly known as Sheldor the Conqueror." Cold flame slowly wreathes along his arms, up around his sword-blade, the chill glow underlighting his face. His black cloak flares without wind, spreads like dark wings of night behind him. "Ah, I assume that you _have_ heard of me?" Turns his head, reproachful. "I'm not sure that you need to laugh at him like that, Penelope."

"Oh, come on, it's funny." Watching her ex-boyfriend deflate into a grovelling heap is a moment of delicious vengeance. "Krut, sweetie, you might wanna ask names _before_ you start picking fights."

Sheldor turns the flames off, and sits back down again. The running and screaming stops, and people begin to shakily make their way back to the fireside, perching nervously and eyeing the sorcerer in their midst.

Bork is making a rapid reassessment. If this is truly Sheldor, (and yeah, the whole scary-ass flaming sword thing rather sells it) then the rumours of the warrior queen who fights beside him... Penelope grins at her father.

"Did I tell you that I have my own horde, now?"

Ah, well, if she is going to settle for some wall-dwelling southerner, then it might as well be the most dangerous one she can find.

Bork watches the way the powerful sorcerer smiles down at her, as she laces her fingers with his, her smile back up at him as he wraps the folds of his cloak tenderly around her. There are also things in this world that you cannot buy or sell, things that cannot be taken by stealth or won by force of arms. Sheldor's blue eyes flick up for a moment to meet his, and Bork gives a small, approving nod.

It seems that his little girl really _has_ found herself a man who will lay the riches of the world at her feet.


	8. Breaking The Mould

The Sacred Forest is home to diverse temples, shrines, fanes and sacred groves. Penelope herself had been a minor handmaiden, before she got Career, and reinvented herself as a warrior-queen. Still, it's nice to go back and visit sometimes, especially in the company of a sorcerer who makes gods nervous. She's less sure about the rest of the party...

The great carved doors of the Ebon Shrine of Eternal Gloom bang open, and Sheldor stalks down the steps, dragging Shalym by the elbow. Behind him, Penelope does the same with Taru.

"Which bit of Children of the Night did you fail to understand?" Sheldor demands.

"...still think we could have made beautiful music together." Shlaym grumbles.

"Shlaym, they were _vampires_. If Sheldor and I hadn't busted in and staked them, they'd have drained you two like milkshakes."

"Oh, yeah..." His expression is all wistful lechery. Taru pulls his own dreamy smile into a contrite frown, brushes the last of the dust off his shirt.

"...y'know, I heard that the acolytes at the Temple of Love have an open door policy..." Shlaym is ever hopeful.

"It's a place of worship, not an all-you-can-eat- buffet." Penelope snaps at him.

"Or an all-that-can-eat-you-buffet, in this case." Sheldor gives his breathy little laugh.

Dranel, who has taken no part in either the pursuit of scary pale girls in black, or the subsequent slayage, trails after the bickering group. All the talk of stakes and milkshakes is making him hungry. In fact, he can smell something. A delicate, promising, delectable fragrance.

Following his nose, he steps off the trail, and finds himself in a small grove. His face brightens. Mushrooms. Mouth watering in anticipation, he reaches out a hand...

The muffled wails alert the group. Instinctively, Taru and Shlaym huddle behind Sheldor, who rolls his eyes.

Dranel is clinging to the lowest branch of a tree, using a stick to beat at the things hopping and squeaking angrily around the base. Things which promptly turn large scowling eyes on the newcomers, and surge forward, gnashing.

"Fascinating." Sheldor regards the creature now biting his boot. "It appears to be a mobile form of semi-sentient fungi, with some kind of offensive dentation."

"Mushrooms with _teeth?_" Penelope blinks in disbelief.

"Well, it looks like we're in the shiitake now..." Shlaym cracks, yelps as one of them fastens on his wrist. "Ah, getitoff, getitoff!"

His flailing causes the shroom to lose its grip, flying loose to bounce and roll, where it sits, spitting faintly, eyes crossed.

Sheldor, his armour rendering him impervious to the assault of fungi-fangs, continues to examine the creatures. He himself had bred a pet griffin as a child, but since then, he's left the chimerical arts to others, concentrating on the higher sorceries.

"They're only playing. Just push them away if they're a nuisance." A high, clear little voice says.

The girl is small, hardly more than halfling sized, but apparently human. The horrifying little creatures hop up and down around her, trilling happily as she pets them.

"Amanita?"

"Penelope?"

There is girlish shrieking and hugging, and suddenly Sheldor is being pulled along by one elbow.

"Sheldor, this is Amanita, we were minor handmaidens together at the Temple of Sernik. Amanita, this is Sheldor the Conqueror."

Amanita's eyes go a bit wide at being thus introduced to the tall man in black.

"Pleased to meet you."

"Likewise." Sheldor detaches a shroom from his ankle. "Are these your own work?"

The scowl fails to look fierce on that little face.

"The locals are so very reactionary about bioengineering. I mean, trees have dryads, flowers have fairies, why should the poor fungi get left out? Even mould has feelings."

Shlaym's eyes light up. He edges up, offers his most ingratiating leer.

"Well, I live in a _very_ damp cellar, you wanna come and see my spores?.."

Amanita gives a shy little giggle.

Penelope opens her mouth, shuts it again. Looks up at Sheldor, who looks equally bemused.

"Could somebody get me down from here?" Dranel enquires plaintively. Instantly, the shroom chorus starts up again. He hugs his branch more tightly.


	9. Temple of The Frog 1

Temple of The Frog: Part 1. The Swamps of Yo'Goth

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The Swamps of Yo'goth are a vast, trackless expanse of mottled green, all weed and water, shifting islets and twisted roots, hung with creepers and strange fungi that glow with a weird halflight. Such sunshine as makes a way through the canopy is weak, and no winds reach far enough to dispel the mists that hang. It is a place of shadows and strange rumour. People do live here, but they are not all human. Or perhaps all-human. Pallid, furtive shapes dart through the murk, and pale eyes gleam from the doorways of windowless huts in the damp little villages. Things splash and scurry unseen, and odd calls croak and chitter.

You could cut the atmosphere with a knife. Literally. It is warm, soupy, rank with the odour of still water and rotting vegetation.

"Ah, my old neighbourhood." Shlaym takes a deep breath of the fetid air. "Smell that."

"I'd rather not." Dranel slips off another stone. A long arm whips out, catches him by the collar before he sits down in the mud.

Sheldor is picking through the reeds like a heron. He's tall enough to be able to step from one moss-covered stone to the next without difficulty. The other three are mired from the knees down, a combination of short legs and poor co-ordination. Shlaym plashes along happily enough (and Taru wouldn't like to swear that he hasn't seen webbing between those toes) but the dark elf and the halfling are muddy and miserable.

(Penelope doesn't do swamps. Heat, humidity and mud? Nuh-uh. It wrecks her hair. So she'd seen them off with a cheerful wave. The boys are on their own for this one.)

"...don't understand why we have to walk all the way..." Taru is mumbling.

"Have none of my lectures on the properties of interstitial portals and the need for locative geodesic principles made any impression?" Sheldor huffs at his blank expression. "It's a_ lost_ temple, by definition. Anyway, it's a perfectly nice day for a walk."

This time, they all stare blankly at him. Even Shlaym.

"Sheldor, this place is a muggy, humid nightmare, full of vicious bugs and weird locals."

"Oh, I'm used to _that_. I'm from the Isle of Doom."

A seaport far to the south, the many bays and swamps provide a haven for smugglers and freebooters. Amongst other things. Taru's eyes go wide.

"Is it true about the giant albino alligators?"

"Yes." Sheldor navigates another stone. "They taste like chicken."

Dranel thinks that they should really know better by now. Sheldor doesn't talk much about his family, but from what they have gathered, he's the son of a monster-slayer. Hence the ability to use both sword and sorcery, which quite often comes as a nasty, if somewhat brief, shock to his opponents.

00000000

After another hour of walking (and slipping, tripping and whining) they pause by a pool, a dark mirror that reflects a sliver of the sky, where the tangle of trees opens out slightly, a tiny space of solid, dry land.

Shlaym's mother has packed him a lunch. The others politely decline to share it – something in one of the containers is still twitching – but it is agreed to be better than Amanita's last experiment in the kitchen. The pancake batter is still lurking down in the pantry somewhere, and there are far fewer rats around.

Dranel gives up trying to pick the mud off his toes. It has dried to a clay, and the attempt is excruciating, so he decides to soak them in the water instead.

Now they have stopped walking, the warmth is almost pleasant. The water is silky, cool around his tired feet, and he watches a couple of dragonfly skim down over the surface, errant sunlight catching the jewel tones of their bodies. Perhaps it isn't so bad here, after all.

...which is of course when the rope-thick tentacles snake up out of the depths and grab him by the ankles.

00000000

Dranel is actually a fairly competent magic user, but nobody is really at their best when being unexpectedly assaulted by an eldritch horror from the deep. He's reduced to thrashing and spluttering, fingers slipping in the ooze as he tries to claw himself free from the strangling grip. A quick upside down glimpse of Taru and Shlaym, mouths and eyes wide, and then the world is a blue-green cloud of bubbles.

"_...Iä! Iä! Gaakh ph'tui periannath!"_

In the thrashing hell of snaking limbs and snapping jaws, one great yellow eye fastens its gaze upon the tall figure glaring from the bank, arms folded and face stern.

Sheldor raises one eyebrow meaningfully.

The tentacles freeze for a moment. Then they begin to withdraw, coils loosening, slithering rapidly back beneath the oily water. Dranel is deposited on the ground in front of Sheldor, and one tentacle gives him a quick conciliatory pat on the head, before whisking away. There is one final plop, and the surface of the pool is again mirror-smooth.

The beast is old and wily, waiting patiently beneath the surface for prey to come within its grasp. Princes and peasants, wizards and warriors, all who enter that slimy embrace are pulled down into the crushing deeps, and devoured, their bones sinking through the mud, to lie forgotten. Many an Elven song has been silenced, many a merry Halfling jest, the weapons of Dwarf and Man rust amidst the weeds.

But to face He Who Walks Softly And Carries A Flaming Great Sword? The Lurker in the Lake burrows further down into the muck and ooze, and pulls a large rock over itself. Fh'tagn that for a laugh.

Dranel finishes coughing up slimy water, and rolls over, groaning weakly. Sheldor shakes his head.

"Perhaps we should walk a bit further before we set up camp."

Nobody is going to disagree.

00000000

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a/n - Galveston's original name was indeed _Isla de Malhado, _Isle of Doom_. _Seriously, how could I not be all up in that?

And Shlaym's a fun guy. Of course he's from Yo'Goth...


	10. Temple of The Frog 2

Temple of the Frog: Part 2. Scary Monsters, Super Creeps

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Should there have been any there to see it, from the air, a curious phenomenon would be observed. Normally, the progress of a venturing party can be tracked by the stealthy movements towards them, the journey often ending abruptly and messily. This time, every predator in the swamp seems to be heading _away_ from one particular point...

"Do try and keep up." The acerbic tones float back.

"I should have killed him in his sleep." Shlaym mutters.

"And that would leave us lost in the middle of the dangerous swamp _without_ the scary sorcerer with the big sharp sword." Taru very sensibly points out.

"Good point."

"Hey, I can do sorcery, too." Dranel is defensive.

"Yeah, but crab-faced monsters don't jump out of trees at _you_, waving their mandibles, and then say 'oh, sorry, thought you were somebody else, is that the time, I really must be going...'"

(Dranel hasn't quite perfected the 'flaming sword' trick. There's something very disconcerting about watching his blade soften and droop.)

He trails grumpily after the others, scuffing at the sides of the trail. When Sheldor had suggested a quest, he had been ready to agree. Maybe he would manage to acquire some powerful artifact, or precious item, some shiny gift that would finally win Penelope's favour. After all, it can only be a matter of time before she realises that she would much rather be devoted to him... Lost in a happy daydream, he takes another step, and disappears abruptly from view.

Sheldor peers down the hole.

"Oh, well done," he says, completely without irony. "I think you found the lost temple."

00000000

The geometries of the temple have a subtle wrongness, even in the meagre light from the flickering lanterns. The walls run with water, and there is a slick film to the stones beneath Dranel's feet. He shudders. There are carvings on the wall, of fish-squid...things. Whether they are feasting, fighting or fornicating, or any combination thereof, is a bit unclear. Shlaym raises his lantern, tilts his head.

"Maybe it's a menu." He brightens. "Or a sex manual."

Taru and Dranel grab an elbow each and haul him onwards.

The temple is from the same malevolent school of architecture as the Dark Keep. But nobody gets flattened, impaled or dropped down a hole. Though there is one nasty moment with a trick floor, and an argument over some obscure translation from the Glaakian.

The tunnel opens out into a great chamber, and the light of their lanterns is lost in the darkness. Sheldor tosses a small werelight up, and with a soft exhalation, sconces around the walls light up, burning with an odd greenish flame.

It isn't a floor in front of them, but a pool, built, perhaps by hands not human, but shaped by design, not nature. The rocky sides step down to the lapping black waters. And reflected in it, the vast statue of the Frog God, squatting in bloated majesty. The dancing flames cause the shadows to move, as if the great stone beast simply breathes in slumber, and may open those bulbous eyes at any moment, gape that vast maw. Between the splayed front feet, there is an altar, carved in the likeness of some great lily pad, and seated upon it, an idol, a tiny replica of the looming monster above it, but carved from one single emerald.

"Oh, how unimaginative." Sheldor sniffs. Dranel is already measuring dirt into a small bag.

Their usual rivalry is forgotten now, as they pass the bag, weigh it, estimate and calculate, by eye and by arcane means. Sheldor tips a dribble from the bag, hands it back. Dranel looks up at him, and Sheldor nods, once, decisive.

Dranel takes a deep breath, and with a swift movement, removes the statue, replaces it with the bag of dirt.

There is a breathless, terrified moment.

But the altar doesn't move, and they both exhale with relief.

Shlaym has been levering the top out of one of the large jars before the altar, and now he recoils slightly.

"I do hope these are pickled walnuts."

Taru peers in.

"No, I think they took 'gathering their thoughts' pretty literally."

"Some of these look a bit...fresh." Shlaym looks around nervously. "How lost is this temple again?"

"Well, _we_ found it."

"I don't want my brains in a jar."

"I doubt anybody else would, either." Sheldor has found a pile of scrolls, which he is dextrously unrolling and scanning.

"Er...I think you may be wrong about that..." Shlaym says, eyes fixed on the doorway.

The worshippers flop and shamble across the stones, and there is something about the slap of their bare feet which is...unpleasant. There are glimpses within the hoods of protuberant eyes, wide, wet mouths. There is an angry croaking and muttering amongst them, and several broad pale hands clutch spears.

00000000

Asenath Ph'ra Ph'la'h, High Priestess of the Great Frog God Mrrep, fixes unblinking eyes on Sheldor. With her lank hair and glum features, she contrives to look slightly clammy. Sheldor is more interested in the sharp ceremonial knife she has in one webbed hand.

"Would you care for a beverage before I sacrifice you to Mrrep?"

"Thank you, but I really must decline."

"The beverage?"

"The sacrifice."

She does not smile, but looks faintly perplexed.

"It is an honour to contribute to the store of knowledge."

"Well, I did not come all this way to partake in some batrachian bacchanal." Sheldor says, firmly. "I don't think that Penelope would appreciate it."

(His usual genius for understatement. The last time a snake-hipped succubus had attempted to ensnare them all in her wiles, Penelope's response had been swift and brutal. It's very hard to cast spells of seduction when someone is punching you in the face. Sheldor hadn't taken much notice of her, but he had come out of his workroom to see what the noise was all about. Shlaym had been taking bets.)

Sheldor tilts his head, as if listening for something, and the others feel that little surge, smell of hot tin and tingle across the skin that is spellcraft. The little bag of sand flies off the altar and strikes a worshipper in the face. And somewhere, there is a heavy ground-shaking thump, the gritty sound of stone, moving very fast. Sheldor smiles, and the shadows make him look sinister.

"But you know, I've always been fond of bowling."

The maw of the Frog God drops open with a grating suddenness, and a great stone sphere cannons down the revealed passage, striking shards from the walls, sweeping all before it. You did not need to be a genius to work out what was going to happen when that hit the water. Everybody grabs something or someone, and holds on.

00000000

Taru opens his eyes, glad that he has landed on something soft. (Shalym groans.) What the great ball had not carried before it, the backwash from the pool had taken. Sheldor is wringing out the ends of his cloak, and Dranel is hauling himself out of the edge of the pool.

They leave such worshippers as remain in dazed and croaking heaps against the walls. Getting out of the temple is a far easier process than getting in; they simply climb up the revealed passage way behind the statue, towards the weak patch of sunlight.

"Ah." Sheldor exhales, happily. "The final goal is accomplished."

Dranel hugs the bag tightly.

"I carried the treasure out of there, it's mine."

"I'm looking for a greater prize than that trumpery gem." Sheldor dismisses a king's ransom with an airy wave of his fingers, gestures towards the clearing before them. "Gentlemen, behold the bloodflower."

The other three stare at him.

"You dragged us through mud, muck and monsters for a bunch of _flowers_?" Dranel manages.

The rich, deep colours of the blooms are muted in the gloom, but the intoxicating fragrance sweeps over them. A heavy drowsy sweetness, bringing with it the memory of languid warmth, soft, secret laughter...

"I thought Penelope would like them." Sheldor says, as if that explains everything. (For him, it does.)

"Oh, in that case..." Dranel reaches out eagerly. "...argh."

The flowers are now suddenly ringed around with narrow black barbs, springing out from beneath the soft petals, the slender stem. The pretty little blossom has become a spiky nightmare. Sheldor tuts, as Dranel clutches his bleeding hand to his chest. But all his attention is focused on the savage plant, long fingers stroking over the petals.

"There, there, Sheldor's here. I won't let him grab at you again."

Before their startled eyes, the rattling thorns retreat, but there is still a sense of watchfulness about the plant. Sheldor begins carefully loosening the roots. The bloodflower is already coiling small soft tendrils round his wrist, more of the flowers turning towards him.

"So...it's pretty and smells good, but annoy it, and it will slice you to ribbons?" Taru and Shlaym exchange glances, and Shlaym nods. "Yeah...Penelope's going to love it."

"Because nothing says you care like a vampire rose-bush." Dranel grumbles, examining his fingers. "Oooh, there's blood..."

"Somebody catch him...oh, too late." Sheldor sighs, and continues to loosen the roots. "Really, I don't know why he chose a life of venturing."

"He thought it would be a good way to meet women."

"Oh, really." Sheldor snorts. "What a lack of ambition."

Shlaym and Taru look at him.

"Hey, you had a beautiful warrior queen just drop out of the sky. The rest of us have to try a bit harder."

"Indeed. Perhaps you should give some thought to taking some of that Biting Bogweed back for Amanita?"

"What Biting...ow,ow,ow..."

00000000

Sheldor sketches decisively in the air, sharp, glowing lines that hurt the eye, bending space around them.

"Oh, _now_ you can open a portal?" Shlaym grumbles. He's muddy and scratched, and holding a struggling bundle of cloak. The Biting Bogweed is somewhat lively.

"Well, now I've found the bloodflowers." Sheldor raises his eyebrows, his own plant coiled complacently. "Why, did you want to walk home again?"

"Absolutely not." Shlaym trots towards the light with alacrity. Taru follows.

Sheldor sighs, hefts the bloodflower into the crook of one arm, and reaches down to haul Dranel up.

"Come along. I like to think that we have established a comfortable status quo at the Dark Keep, and I really would hate to have to go to the bother of rescuing you from brain-stealing frog-people."

The portal snaps closed behind them, a jagged bolt of light hangs in the air for a moment, then fades.

00000000

Three weeks later, the conservatory at the Dark Keep is a lush and humid jungle, and they've already lost two orcs in there. But Penelope has taken to wearing the bloodflowers in her hair – a girl who grew up wrangling dragons has no qualms about feral foliage.

The frog statue is really rather ugly, so they use it as a doorstop.


End file.
